


I Can't Carry You Forever, But I Can Hold You Now

by olliecoddle



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Eating Disorders, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Grantaire being Grantaire, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Musician Grantaire, Mutual Pining, Non-Binary Grantaire, Other, Poor Grantaire, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24436909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olliecoddle/pseuds/olliecoddle
Summary: Enjolras seemed to be confronted daily with the reality of how little he really knew about Grantaire.Sure, he knew some things about them like how Grantaire would trace their finger around the rim of their glass before they downed the last dregs or how the two front curls that framed their face were always the first to fall out of their bun during meetings or that when they were really itching to blurt out a point they would drum their jagged nails rapidly on the wood of his table. Enjolras knew stuff like that. Stuff anyone who knew Grantaire more than a few days could figure out.aka. grantaire is a musician and enjolras is trying harder to be a good friend to everyone. in the process, he ends up catching feelings for grantaire but he knows less about them than he even knows to ask. relationships are hard and love is harder.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

Enjolras seemed to be confronted daily with the reality of how little he really knew about Grantaire.

Sure, he knew some things about them like how Grantaire would trace their finger around the rim of their glass before they downed the last dregs or how the two front curls that framed their face were always the first to fall out of their bun during meetings or that when they were really itching to blurt out a point they would drum their jagged nails rapidly on the wood of his table. Enjolras knew stuff like that. Stuff anyone who knew Grantaire more than a few days could figure out. 

Yet, he had to be informed of the facts that Grantaire was an skilled dancer, a feared boxer, a visionary painter, and everything else that Grantaire was magnificently good at. Now he had just been (very loudly) told that Grantaire was a musician.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac had only asked if Enjolras had wanted to go out with them. After much pestering, and a guilt trip or two he had agreed to take the night off and go with his roommates, but nobody had mentioned that they were going to see Grantaire’s band play until they were already waiting on the sidewalk, bundled tightly in coats and hats and scarves. 

“You’ve never heard Aire sing??” Combeferre questioned, looking over at Enjolras as they got into their cab together, eyebrow raised.

“Where have you been the first tuesday of every month for the last..I don’t know, 10 months. Enj, how have you never gone with us?!” Courfeyrac said, pulling the door closed. “14th street and Vine,” he said to the cabbie with a smile, then immediately whipped around to look at Enjolras with an accusatory expression.

“I’ve been busy,” Enjolras defended himself, pulling the red knit toque from his head. He could feel that his still-damp curls had frozen where they had stuck out from under his hat and he shook them out gently, dreading when they would unfreeze and drip down his face. 

“Did Grantaire never tell you that they had gigs at the Musain, did they never invite you?” Combeferre asked, still appearing to be in a state of shock. Enjolras was fairly certain that he wouldn’t be hearing the end of this until they reached their destination, and then probably again once they all got back to the apartment. 

“We’re not exactly the best of friends,” Enjolras pointed out, shrugging and leaning against the window, looking out into the grey and sludgey streets just to have something to do other than look into Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s prying eyes.

“They never told you?” Combeferre asked. 

“They don’t tell me a lot!” Enjolras retorted, shrugging.

“God, I don’t understand it. I mean I do, of course,” Courfeyrac turned to look back at Combeferre and roll his eyes “but they spent twenty minutes straight tonight bragging to me about how they could fight four of me all at once even if two of the me’s got weapons, but they don’t tell you this kind of shit?” Courfeyrac 

Enjolras felt a bit of a twist in his stomach. He knew that he and Grantaire didn’t get along very well but he didn’t need to be reminded of it. It made him uncomfortable seeing how everyone else was the best of friends with them but the closest thing they got to hanging out outside of the group was the time he had stopped by to see Bahorel only to find that Grantaire was the only one home. 

.

“Come to see me, mon ange? Me? For why? For how? For what? Hmm? You are a saucy boy. Is ’t so, indeed? This trick may chance to scathe you,” they said, winking exaggeratedly with twinkle in their eye as they leaned against the doorframe. They had been wearing a white muscle tank and green silk boxers. 

“What?”

“Shakespeare, petit gâteau, Shakespeare."

“Are you drunk?” Enjolras asked, though he knew the answer. Grataire ignored the question. 

“Or, sweet vengeful god, are you here to kick my teeth in for the comment I made about Mark Ashton in the group chat? Because I will stand by that, I would let the man sound me. Solidarity, right?”

“I..is Bahorel home?"

“Bahorel!?” Grantaire had shouted over their shoulder, but then frowned and shook their head, “He left for work three hours ago I forgot about that”

"Forgot?" Enjolras repeated, stupidly. 

“Yes, sweet sugar plum, forgot. Now, unless you would like to come in Joly and I have some wallowing in the doldrums to do because he just had a fight with Chetta and I am cripplingly mentally ill on several counts, so I must bid you adieu."

Enjolras had left after that, going back home in a bit of a daze.

.

They shuffled out of the cab, wrapping their winter bundling around them once again as they faced the smack the winter cold would give them. 

Entering the Musain on a non-meeting night was a wholly different experience. The air seemed to hang low and boozy, perfumed with the human scent that only hung around a bar. Fake artificial aromas and sweat. The lights were even lower than usual, as though the mass of bodies was making it dim.

From the moment the music started Enjolras was transfixed. He wasn’t one for music. He wasn’t one for much, but he didn’t know Grantaire could sing like that.

To be honest, he hadnt known that Grantaire was the singer until they opened their mouth. 

But Jesus could they sing. Their voice was soulful, earthy. It sounded like Grantaire, he could hear their voice in there somewhere but transformed. 

Enjolras found it difficult not to try to analyze the crowd mentality of the group that night, how the audience seemed to know exactly how upbeat a song had to be for them to flock to the small area of the floor that was barren from tables and start dancing. How they knew when to cheer and when to clap with a silent awe. All those small cues that made them one cohesive mob. Maybe Enjolras was jealous that he didn't seem to catch them. 

More than that, Enjolras wanted to understand how Grantaire could work that crowd effortlessly. When they pulled up their t-shirt from the bottom and wiped their sweaty brow between songs, their skin tanned and hairy with just the right amount of pudge elicited playful oos from the audience and a wolf whistle he suspected came from Joly. They rolled their eyes at that, bashfully looking down at the mic, everyone could see the small blush on their freckled cheeks. 

Combeferre nudged a drink into his hand, a vodka soda that he willfully accepted.The other man leaned in as he handed over the glass and just loud enough for Enjolras to hear informed him that he was staring. 

Enjolras bit back a retort and just laughed, shaking his head. Very un-enjolras but it was loud and hot and with Combeferre he would escape ridicule by just dropping it Perhaps he was, staring. He had reason, though. It was odd to see Graintaire in a new environment like this. 

Enjolras found it hard to catch words, hard to hold on to the meanings of songs. They passed through him like air, one to the next making him feel and the forget. At the end of the show, he didn't think he could name one song he had heard that night, but he could add music to the list of things Grantaire was miraculously good at. That list seemed to be growing a bit long. 

Courfeyrac insisted that they meet Grantaire outside after the show. Enjolras' watch told him that it was far past midnight and he desperately wanted to just go home, go to sleep, but as soon as he got his coat on Courfeyrac had linked his arm around his own and was whisking him out through the backdoor of the Musian.

"Courf, I'm freezing," Enjolras complained after a few minutes standing in the alley. The sweat he had accumulated beneath his clothes inside only made him freeze faster now. If it had been cold on their way over, it was Arctic now. The wind had picked up slightly and now late at night it was bitter cold. The gravel beneath them had iced over and was somehow slick, the garbage that wasn't frozen go the ground blowing about with wild abandon.

"Don't be a pussy, babe" Courfeyrac dug in his coat pocket and procured a carton of Marlboro Gold's. "Want one?" 

"No. You shouldn't say pussy like that," Enjolras insisted. He felt as though he was getting a brain freeze just from the cold wind on his brow.

"My apologies, Enj," he mumbled, fuming to light the smoke clasped between his teeth. 

Grantaire emerged moments later in a puff of hot air from inside. 

"Audio was shit in there tonight," were the first words from their lips, accepting Courfeyrac's just-lit cigarette without a word. Courfeyrac dug for another one. Grantaire didn't seem to notice him for a few beats, taking a long drag. 

"So I assume everything went well if that's all you can say," Courfeyrac leaned forward to grab the fold of Grantaire's hat and pulled it down on one side over their ear. "You'll freeze, babe."

"It was just peachy. Call NA, I finally found that natural high," Grantaire exhaled dragon smoke into the night air. 

"We dragged this one along for once," Courfeyrac said, taking a step towards Enjolras. 

Grantaire saw him, stopping with the cigarette halfway their mouth and letting out a small laugh. "You stumble in there, mon cheri? Trying to go practice one of your speeches to the barmice?"

"I came on purpose," were the words Enjolras found. 

" Well aren't you just sweet. Like she show?" Grantaire questioned, flicking their cigarette. 

"It was good," he nodded, his finger fiddling with an unraveling string inside of his mitten. 

"You should review for Rolling Stone."

"Lay off him, Aire" Courfeyrac interrupted, a small smile on his lips. 

"Well, I'm glad you showed up. You too, Courf. But, I've gotta dash. Everyone's favorite threesome has chosen me as a fourth to get disco fries. Everything in my fridge has gone moldy. I'm sure you're welcome to come, if I'm invited, anyone is," Grantaire put their cigarette out under their boot.

Courfeyrac gave a glance to Enjolras who shook his head.

"Maybe next time, babe," Courfeyrac said regretfully.

"Alright, I suspect they wanted to confront me about something asinine anyway, now get this one home before his porcelain cracks in this weather." 

"Aye aye," Courfeyrac pulled Grantaire into a brief hug before they started back into the building. 

"You really were good," Enjolras shouted helessly at their back, the door closing behind them with a hiss of compression. 

"Aw, babe," Courfeyrac commented, putting his hand on Enjolras' shoulder and leading him back to the front of the building. They walked through the alley, the pair watching their step on the slippery rocks. 

"What?" Enjolras insisted.

"Nothing. Let's go home."

That night when Enjolras was back in his bed enclosed in a tight wrap of his own warm covers his mind drifted to what would have happened if he had agreed to go with them all that night. Get food from that grubby diner Bossuet loved, talk in a booth by that steamy front window. More often than not, Enjolras was the one to turn down invitations from the group. Movie nights, birthday drink-athons, mini golf (though it seemed like he may have dodged a bullet on that one, Combeferre came home with a black eye). Before that night, Enjolras hardly ever considered what he was missing by staying at home. He had been able to see very concretely what he gained, the papers he wrote, the leaflets he revised, the tests he studied for, but he couldn't help but wonder what he was missing. What else could Enjolras have learned about Grantaire, about them all?


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras’ realization of the gaps in his relational habits haunted him for the following days, an incessant notion in the back of his mind that he was living his life wrong. 

It had been a while since he had questioned his decisions on how to conduct his day-to-day operations and he was embarrassed to admit how much it was rocking him. He thought about it as he watched the last dregs of coffee drip through his old yellowing machine and into his chipped coffee mug. He thought about it while he rode the bus to meet with his advisor. He considered it in the shower, pondered it walking to the market down the street, and contemplated it as he fell asleep. He couldn't get it out of his mind. His chosen path was somewhat unforgiving, even he would admit it. It locked him away in his own world for most of his days, he was an arrow focused on his goals, others in his life became relevant to him when they became part of that arrow’s path, even his closest friends. Yet now, he reconsidered his approach to this. He knew the importance of social connections and bonds, knew that those he fought with would only fight harder if they were bonded more closely. And that was the way that he convinced himself that more nights off would be alright, through the logic that what he was doing wasn’t self-indulgence but on the contrary was important work in the completion of his mission, that forming a stronger alliance with his friends would benefit what he stood for, who he was.

Still, a part of Enjolras was apprehensive, he supposed, that this was a misjudgment, an excuse. That he was doing this because he wanted to stray from his path, abandon the version of himself he worked so hard to conjure every day. He knew it would become easier and easier to lose focus on these goals, on what he knew to be right and just. He worried that he wasn’t looking to enrich his world, he was looking to enrich himself, he knew how easy it was to become selfish in the way that he lived his life.

There had been a time when he was more socially active when he went out or stayed in and spent time with his friends. With Courfeyrac, with Marius. It hadn’t been good for him, he knew that now. It all came to a head winter last year when he had done very little of anything at all. He had felt so deeply dragged down, it became easier and easier to lay in bed, live with no direction at all. He was afraid of a recurrence of that life. He was afraid that the weight of his own laziness, his own inclination towards self-indulgence would take over and derail his life. If he took nights for his own pleasure, it would become harder and harder to keep focused. But he wasn’t risking a return to the place of despair, of unmotivated and helpless living. He wouldn’t return somewhere that dark again. He wouldn’t let himself. When spring came and he began to feel better, when that season of his life started to vanish behind him he lived his life ritualistically, the things he did were intentional and well-practiced. To break from the rigid structure was an invitation back to a place where he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, where he couldn’t maintain his own hygiene or basic tasks, a place where he certainly wasn’t making a difference, where he couldn’t change the world, he couldn’t even change his own sheets. 

But one night every once in a while wouldn’t hurt. He could do this. 

The first function that Enjolras decided to go to was a potluck. Well, Enjolras has been told that it was a potluck. 

He received the invitation from Feiully via text in the middle of a meeting. He had felt the vibration in his pocket, but it was only when Courfeyrac interrupted him to shout that he should check his phone that he read the message. Flustered, he had checked the text, mumbling that he would think about it and then louder that they all needed to stay focused, shoving his phone back in his pocket and reaching down to shuffle some leaflets. Everyone in the room seemed to know what he meant by “maybe”, though, as Bahorel had asked him if he wanted a ride there on their way out. 

A potluck. That meant he had to bring something. He wasn’t much of a cook by any means. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had made dinner for himself. He wasn't a person who enjoyed eating. He didn't like the way food felt on his teeth, didn't like the unpredictability of textures. Something gritty scratching against his molars while he ate could put him off for the rest of the day. Most of the time he just didn’t bother, so he hadn’t learned much beyond toast and sandwiches and things he could stick in the microwave for 5 minutes and 30 seconds. But, Enjolras did have one recipe that he went back to over and over again to bring to this type of thing. One that was a sure crowd-pleaser among his group of millennial punk pseudo-intellectuals. 

Yet, showing up with his plate of earl grey cookies, he felt unbelievably silly. The sweets were all lined up like soldiers with their uniform round faces covered in white sprinkles. They would have been cute for a potluck, but Enjolras had been seemingly misinformed about what he was walking into. Maybe it had started off as a potluck, he was almost two hours late on account of the fact that he had no frame of reference for how long anything took to cook, but by the time he got there a more accurate word would have been ‘house-party”. Enjolras could hear the bumping music coming from Feuilley’s basement apartment before he even got to the door. He heavily considered smashing the china plate on the ground in front of him and running back home to take a hot shower and slip into bed as he had originally planned, but he had made a promise to himself. And to Courfeyrac, who had left the house with Combeferre without him, which was to say in a timely manner. His effervescent roommate had sent him a spam of close to fifteen texts asking if he was on his way, texts that made much more sense when he walked through the door and saw the state of his friend. Courfeyrac was hanging off of Combeferre, giggling and laying kisses on his neck in the middle of the makeshift dance floor. The couple, usually relatively chaste, were locking eyes in a borderline indecent gaze, moving to the music. It was unlike them, which was usually why Enjolras found them so easy to live with them. He didn’t like to think of himself as a prude, he would campaign to his last breath for the destigmatization of sex and sexuality, but he hadn’t learned to be comfortable around that kind of sensual affection. It was his own hang-up, he would be the first to admit that, but if he knew that if he went to greet them like that the discomfort would be evident on his face, which was why he made a beeline for the table that seemed to provide any evidence of the aforementioned potluck, a card table covered in a gaudy pink plastic liner that housed a collection of food and drink (mostly drink). 

He set the plate down, doing his best to camouflage it in with the rest of the dishes but no matter what he did it still seemed to stick out. He gave up and walked away from the table, but that only seemed to make everything worse, now with nothing to occupy him, occupy his hands. Everyone seemed so preoccupied, he didn’t want to interrupt their smiles and conversation, he didn’t want to have to make himself butt in. These were his friends, he tried to remind himself but this was different from meetings where he had an agenda, a reason to quiet them with a disapproving gaze and a call above their chatter. He had no reason to stop their fun, to interrupt them. He didn't feel like he had a clear place here, he didn't know how to be Enjolras. 

He was soon approached again, predictably by his own roommate, thankfully without Combeferre this time. 

"Hey, Courf. Is that my sock?"

The man was sporting one pink and blue polka-dotted and the other green and grey argyle identifiable as Enjolras's own.

"Do you like them? They represent the duality of man."

"That's not what that means." Enjolras folded his arms over his chest, shifting his weight between his firmly planted sneakers.

"The bisexuality of man!"

"More accurate. Is that my sock?"

"Aww don't be mad, cutie! You only need one sock to hang on the doorknob! Let's get you laid tonight."

"Maybe not tonight, Courf,” he said dismissively. That would not be happening, for many reasons. He knew everyone there, for starters. He didn't like hooking up with people he knew. He was also painfully aware of how many of them were within earshot as Courfeyrac continued unbothered. 

"Remember that guy from South Africa that you kept talking about Apartheid to and then I walked in on you sucking him off?"

"Courfeyrac!"

"You were so embarrassed! It was fine, babe! You looked really good; your hair was all nice, it wasn't embarrassing. I don't know why you were embarrassed. You should call him. Let's drink and then call him."

Enjolras knew he would never call him, but he did accept the offer for a drink. Fireball and chocolate milk, a group favorite with a taste so pleasant it was almost possible to forget how foul it smelled wretched into a toilet at 3 am. Courfeyrac opted for another shot of vodka followed quickly but the powder from a crystal light packet, a concoction that would cause men without his drinking experience to choke and cough for the rest of the night. Courfeyrac was quick to slip into drunkenness but he could handle his liquor, perhaps because his usual personhood came across as almost inebriated under normal circumstances, flowy and confessional and purposefully eclectic. 

The drink flowed down his throat, cold and lovely and gone too quickly. He refilled it, not as generously as Courfeyrac had but enough that he would be able to sip at it for a while, give him something to do with his hands, for Courfeyrac had already found someone else to talk to and Enjolras was let out to sea once again. He wandered, trying to seem like he was appreciating the art on Feuilley’s walls. He stopped for a moment at a painting, trying to drown out the chatter and the music that was all a little too much for him, especially when he had no voice, in particular, to focus on among it all. The painting was of a woman’s face, beautiful and haughty, but grotesquely injured. Her mouth was open, a row of teeth that formed a white picket fence, inside a small brick house. Her eyes were closed, swollen shut and bruised black and red and yellow. 

“You like it?” came a voice, not loud, but right behind his ear. He jumped and turned his head, met immediately with Grantaire’s. “Did I scare you?”

“Yes,” Enjolras answered, wrapping his hands uncomfortably around his waist. 

“Good,” they said wickedly, but their eyes still held good nature. “Do you like it?” they repeated. 

“Umm,” Enjolras turned back to the painting, staring at it again. Did he like it? He wasn’t sure. It made him uneasy, but it was expertly painted. 

“Be honest,” Grantaire encouraged. 

“It’s a little much, I guess,” Enjolras decided, shrugging. 

“I’ll let the artist know, then,” Grantaire said, a grimace gracing their features for only a moment before vanishing. 

“It’s just the way she’s beaten up like that, I don’t like looking at it,” Enjolras said, trying to explain, catch himself. 

“You think that’s a woman?” Grantaire asked, looking as if they were about to laugh. 

“I think so...isn’t it,” Enjolras turned back to the painting, a well of panic springing from his chest as he set his eyes searching for something that he may have missed, but it still seemed like a woman to him. 

“Fascinating. Want a spliff? Quick, before the others smell it, vultures.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Want something stronger, eh? Wow, let me see what I have on me,” Grantaire fake patted-down their faded brown leather jacket. 

“No, I don’t do any of it. No.”

“Shame. Well, to the fucking freezing stairwell I go, then. Almost more frigid than you out there, Enj. If I’m not back in ten, see I haven’t frozen”

“Okay,” was all Enjolras could manage. 

Grantaire looked amused, turning towards the door and pulling a lighter out of their jacket pocket. “By the way, I painted it,” Grantaire announced, punctuating their sentence by lighting the joint that was between their fingers and pushing open the back door, a blast of cold air coming in as it swung shut behind them.

Enjolras wrapped his arms more tightly around him, not for the cold, but for the clenching stomach ache that interaction had left him. 

For this ailment, he prescribed himself two shots of identified white liquor. It didn’t cure it, but it freed his body to move faster than his brain. Not quite free enough for dancing, but enough to join the growing game of Kings Cup in the corner. It was hot, he was pressed shoulder to shoulder with his friends around a can of hard seltzer, and a deck of playing cards spread around it like offerings to an altar. Combeferre handed him a cup that tasted like Dr. Pepper, which he trusted, and the game passed in a blur of red cups. Suddenly, he felt his body stand up from the game before it finished, with a foggy drunken purpose that was usually only reserved for running to the toilet to retch, but he found himself with his hand on the handle of the back door, pulling it open. 

Grantaire sat on the steps, their head resting against the black metal rail, their eyes looked gently glazed over but their gaze found Enjolras’.

“You said to see if you’re dead. It’s been ten minutes. More, probably.”

“Wonder of wonders, he does care.”

“You said so. To check,” Enjolras said indignantly.

“I regrettably have not perished.”

“Okay, good,” was Enjolras’ insufficient reply. 

“Come, sit,” Grantaire asked, gesturing to the icy step next to them.

Enjolras felt it hit his legs, cold and wet on the back of his thighs before he could even consider their offer. He wasn’t usually this close to Grantaire. All he could smell was the grass and the foul stench of the garbage bins a few feet away on the street. 

“You’re wasted.” It wasn’t a question

“No,” Enjolras lied. 

“You look wasted.”

“I only had a few drinks.”

“On an empty stomach, I bet though, yeah?”

“No,” Enjolras lied. 

“There’s lots of food in there, help you sober up. Michelin star, I promise”

“I don’t want to sober up.”

They sat for a few moments, maybe more, and Enjolras’ fingers fell absently next to his hip, and he traced patterns into the rough, icy surface. It was cold, but he couldn’t seem to pull them away. His fingers danced along the grooves of the ice until they hit Grantaire’s wrist, startled by the touch of warm flesh Enjolras pulled them back. 

“You trying to hold my hand, ange?” Grantaire teased.

“No,” Enjolras defended, a little too loud, pulling his hand to his chest like it was wounded.

Grantaire stood up rather quickly. “I’m taking a walk. I can’t deal with this, go back inside Enjolras.”

“Can’t deal with what?”

“You,” Grantaire said shortly. 

“Why do you hate me?! Why do you try to make me feel like shit!?” Enjolras called after them, with boldness and loudness that he would find appalling when he woke up on the floor of Courfeyrac’s bedroom the next morning. 

Enjolras could almost swear he heard Grantaire mutter something under their breath, but he made the semi-conscious decision to go back inside and drink until Combeferre wrapped him in his scarf and coat and loaded him into a cab at 3 am. On his way out, he caught sight of the painting again, and for a moment, it didn’t look like a woman to him anymore. It was Grantaire’s. Grantaire made that. Grantaire painted. Enjolras would have to put that on the growing list of things he didn’t really know about them. Enjolras, he realized, didn’t know anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH SHIT DAWG I really did not like how this fic was turning out so I abandoned it but I'm home from college so I have the time to rewrite and I did and its....interesting. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, I can promise this time that there WILL be more!! 
> 
> any feedback is a million times appreciated, thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras thought about that interaction on the icy steps frequently over the next few days, which was annoyingly inconvenient. He had an exam to study for, but just as he started to understand the chapter, the thought of Grantaire’s hand brushing against his, warm and rough in comparison to the level slip of the ice, would intrude suddenly, and in a moment he would go from calm to itching in his own indecent skin. 

That was why he didn’t drink like that. Because he, again and again, made memories that left him feeling like he wanted to pick at himself until the part of him that made him do that was gone. He wanted some sort of penance he could do to clean himself up of his actions, to make him pure and assure himself that he wouldn’t do those types of things again. Simply put, he felt icky.

Enjolras couldn’t sleep either, like the pendulum of a clock every time his brain seemed to slow down as it reached the peak of its path, gravity took it again, bringing a jerk of thought that would spring him back into action. As he first began to fall asleep, he remembered that he needed to schedule that email to the Dean of Students that he had written last night to send at 8 am. Then, a flash of Grantaire, their voice opening with a gritty low cry on the upswing of a chorus. He had forgotten to water his plants for god knows how long, and he needed to fix that right now. Grantaire’s fingers curled delicately around a lit cigarette, it’s dim light just revealing their nails, which were dirty not with black or brown but with pink and white and blue paint. His window wasn’t quite latched and he could hear the wind whistling against the wood under it. Grantaire, clearly beat to hell and tired, but laying across the table at a meeting, their eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. He was hungry. 

Hungry, that was the most recent thought to bring him to task. Not a feeling he always caved to, but the gnawing ache in his stomach was keeping him awake, and he knew there were bagels in the cabinet. Enjolras saw himself reflected in the toaster, and another thought of Grantaire flashed through his mind, but not one so flattering. The way that his own eyes looked, sunken so far back into his skull and yet still puffy and swollen, he had seen few people at this low of a look. The eyes he saw like this most often belonged to himself, second to the greasy and haggard version of Grantaire that would show up every few months to meetings to heckle a bit more viciously than usual, an unfamiliar look in their eyes, and would eventually be escorted off by one or two of their friends to have a conversation that Enjolras was never privy to. Grantaire would return, sometimes the next day and sometimes not for weeks. Enjolras wouldn’t ask where they went, but he held his breath as he watched for their seat to be filled. He knew they had the support of their friends, they were far more well-liked than Enjolras. He would just be inserting himself. He heard whispers of what was going on each time, their friends were terrible gossips, but it wasn’t his field. It was too much for him, he wouldn’t be of any help. But, he couldn’t deny the pang he felt when he saw they were missing. 

As he stood, Enjolras couldn’t understand Grantaire, but at that moment he found a pang of empathy for them, for that. 

Enjolras knew there were a million things about them that he didn’t know, that he hadn’t even heard whispers of. 

Enjolras collected his bagel, buttered it as he liked, and went back to bed. 

And so the cycle of days continued until the morning of Enjolras exam when he sat for it and had an immense weight lifted from him. As was Enjolras’ tradition, he celebrated the completion of his goal by going to the botanical gardens alone. 

January met him with an intrusive cold and a slushy ground that got into the seams of his boots despite his best efforts, so he wrapped himself in a black coat and long red scarf that looped around his neck more times than was fashionable. He walked with his hands tucked firmly into his pockets, trying to suppress a shiver. The wind seemed to reach up even below his coat to grate at his skin. He was one of the few people foolish enough to brave the weather for the mediocre winter shrubs available to peruse in the gardens. 

Coincidentally, two of those foolish people happened to be his friends. He spotted the pair of them just as it had started to snow in small and nipping flakes. Joly and Bossuet, an uncommon sight without Musichetta gliding between them, held hands as they wandered through the garden paths. Enjolras thought there was a chance that he could avoid their sight long enough to get out of earshot, but the pair spotted him only a few moments later, Joly calling after him excitedly. Enjolras gave a mittened wave. He was caught. 

Twenty minutes later, Enjolras found himself sitting across from the two of them in a warm coffee shop. The window next to their booth was covered in a steamy condensation that he was sure the hot latte between his palms was contributing to. Enjolras was tired, he didn’t entirely want to be there, but he hadn’t found a polite way to decline their offer. His friends were his friends, and he had some obligation to them even when he didn’t feel like it, at least that was how Enjolras saw it. The coffee helped, but he still couldn’t find the energy to participate in their conversation, so he listened absently as the couple debated thematic parallels in a movie that they had seen and Enjolras hadn’t. His eyes washed over the counter positioned ten or so feet away from his seat, his eyes focused hazily on the colorful display of albums the shop had for sale. 

Suddenly, one of the shapes transformed into something unsettlingly familiar, a picture that Enjolras had seen before. It was a woman, her face bruised up, her mouth open with a little house inside. It was the painting, the painting from Feuilley’s apartment. By the way, I painted it.

Enjolras stood up, drawing the attention of the two seated across from him. Unable to find a reason he had stood up, Enjolras sat back down, furrowing his brow as he asked “That album over there, it looks like a painting. A painting Grantaire did.”

“That is their painting,” Bossuet nodded slowly. 

“That’s their album, their band’s, dummy,” Joly finished, looking slightly bewildered. 

“Secrets of the Email Orgasm,” Bossuet supplied. 

“Not their best album title,” Joly shook his head. 

“I like it.”

“I prefer Happy Bidet.” 

“Too crass.”

“Bidets aren't crass.”

“They’re literally ass fountains,” Bossuet countered.

“They sell albums? Here?” Enjolras interjected, his eyes flitting back to the CD. 

“Oh, yeah,” Joly answered. 

“Sell em’ lots of places,” Bossuet shrugged.

“They’re sort of famous”

“Famous,” Enjolras choked.

“Well, just locally, but people love them. They even have some groupies, from what I've heard,” Joly fiddled with the small wooden stir-stick in his tea, a small grin on his face like what he had said was gossip. 

"As they should,” Bossuet chuckled. “Have you seen Grantaire's ass in that one pair of leather shorts they wear on stage? Fuck, I’d be a groupie for them." 

“Delectable.”

"Can we not talk about our friends' asses" the final word caught in Enjolras' throat.

"Aire wouldn't mind, I'm sure.” Joly waved him off.

"Well, I do. I mind." Enjolras said with a little too much force. 

"Jeez, okay."

A small but grinding silence followed Enjolras’ statement, a silence that he felt the need to fill, and after a few beats as he continued. 

“Groupies are unhealthy anyway, a toxic culture. I mean, Lorrie Mattix, look at all that. It’s a grooming culture, it makes it easy for young people to get abused by people they look up to. I don't think we should be taking it lightly is all I’m saying.”

“Enjolras, I don’t think that’s really the situation here,” Bossuet added, his voice cautious and level. 

“Well it just makes me uncomfortable, you guys are joking about it.” Enjolras continued, his eyes now trained back on the bubbles around the rim of his cup. “I don’t like the idea of people fawning all over Grantaire and you all taking it lightly. It makes me feel gross, thinking about people sexualizing them and their art, it’s art, they’re an artist. It doesn’t matter how they look.”

“Grantaire dresses how they do for a reason, they dress sexually on stage, it’s on purpose,” Joly took the teabag out of his drink, pressing it against the side of the cup before setting it on a napkin. He looked almost bemused by Enjolras, which only infuriated him more. 

“Well, that’s not an excuse. They can dress how they want. We shouldn’t talk about it.”

“Again, I really don’t think Aire would mind, but we can shut up about it if you have a problem with it,” Joly offered.

“I don’t have a problem with it. Why would I have a problem with it? It’s just wrong, that’s all. Objectifying” 

“Aren’t you the one objectifying, Enj, saying they can’t be perceived as both an artist and sexual.”

Enjolras let out a strangled noise in the back of his throat that he immediately wanted to hide, hyper-aware of the blush that was creeping up his neck. He didn’t like to lose debates, that was all, that was why he was so bothered. 

“Let’s just move on,” Bossuet offered. “Enjolras, have you looked at the schedule for next term? Are you planning on T.A.ing?” he questioned generously, and Enjolras was more than happy to shift the focus, though it still took a while to regain his composure completely. 

Joly and Bosuett left around half four, but Enjolras’ next bus wasn’t until five, so he stayed for a while in the cafe on his own. Before he could help himself, Enjolras found that he had gotten up from his seat and had bought Grantaire’s album, the cellophane-wrapped CD case clutched between his fingers. He tucked it into his pea coat, where it burned a hole in his breast pocket the whole way home. 

When he was alone in his room he brought it out again. Enjolras didn’t have any interest in upgrading his electronics, so he luckily had a walkman tucked into his bottom desk drawer. He plugged his headphones into it and put the CD in, tucking himself into the upper corner of his mattress and pressing play. 

The experience of listening to Grantaire sing through headphones was different than listening to him live. Quieter, but far more intimate. He wasn’t sure that he liked it. The way they recorded gave a fullness and polish to the music, full and whole. Enjolras wasn’t sure who wrote the songs, but Grantaire’s voice naturally carried the snark, the lyrics at a strange weave between saccharine and irreverent. The music was undeniably beautiful. The first few songs were upbeat, one of them he thought he recognized. The third was slower, it highlighted the pleasant calming lilt of their voice, and Enjolras was beginning to relax into the music, forget that it was Grantaire's, and just appreciate it like he would any other album. He picked at his comforter, the words not capturing his full attention until he heard something that made his heart drop. He heard his own name, Enjolras, clear as day. He immediately ripped the headphones out of his ears, erratically pressing the oval button at the top of the machine to get it to open, taking out the CD and without hesitation snapping it in two. Even destroyed, he didn’t want to hold it, so he grabbed the strap from his bag and shoved the two pieces into the front pocket. 

He hadn’t heard the other words. He hadn’t heard the context. He had only heard his name, so close in his ear. Why were they talking about him? Why was his name in one of their songs? He hadn’t given them permission to talk about him. Was Enjolras angry? He couldn't tell. It still felt like a shock to his system. 

The most disturbing thing to him was that Grataire thought about him, perhaps as often as Enjolras thought about them.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for the read!! hope you enjoyed! please please let me know any thoughts you have, I'd love to hear them. 
> 
> -ollie


End file.
